“What’s on the other side?” His finger, reaching for the trigger.
Shrug. Girl looked fearful. Didn’t know; didn’t want to. “Don’t.”
“I’m not scared. I think it’s nice over there.” Bold gunside face.
“Don’t. It’s not.”
“You know?” Muzzle to temple.
No; but she knew death was a fatal disease.

Sadness. Loss. Yet Sean’s mother still lived—look, her chest, rising and falling. Her carotid throbbing, strong arterial pulse. Peaceful eyes closed, unlifelike serenity.

“You never looked peaceful,” he told her. No response; he expected none. Her memory gone, she was no longer Sean’s mother. She was a living corpse.

Children yelling and screaming, dashing in playful abandon about a large brick building. Grass trampled, wood structures hand-polished. Ringing bell recalls chaos; children file in, sit down, open desks, find pencils, attend.

“What is it?” Across the street, Holmes’ companion queries. Wry look from pipe-smoking Holmes.

“Elementary, my dear Watson.”

Professor droning on: “Do we thus become a society of Smurfs, rubbing one another’s tummies?”

Students: eyes closing, heads nodding, pens limp in slack fingers, unresponsive. “If only something interesting would happen,”—listless wish.

Suddenly an enormous carillon plummets through the ceiling, squarely atop Professor Dull.

Saved by the bell.